


Thirst to Slake

by midnightprelude



Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:14:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28355283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightprelude/pseuds/midnightprelude
Summary: The one-eyed elven warrior shudders in his sleep and fixes Astarion with gazes that make his blood boil and leave him wanting. It’s been a very long time since he’s trusted anyone and it’s never turned out well for him in the past.Though... the parasite has let him walk through doors and bask in sunlight. Impossibility after impossibility. Perhaps he needs Zeylin Callis.Maybe the man might also need him, too.
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	Thirst to Slake

“Chief,” Wyll whistled lightly, gesturing towards a nearby clearing. “Another one up there.”

The lean elven man with twin longswords strapped to his back clutched at something beneath his shirt and nodded. Astarion knew what he’d find among the brush if the group approached. He’d hidden the boar’s carcass there himself, less than- Well, he couldn’t really say. Before breakfast, certainly. 

_Their_ breakfast, in any case, the aroma of which left him in such a state of discontent he hardly needed to pretend to be too queasy to eat. Oats, or some other such nonsense. Provincial, really. Quaint. Almost adorable, the whole lot of them, scurrying about after some misplaced wildlife.

A branch snapped under his foot and he shrugged, shuffling to the side. A better vantage point to admire their backsides, in any case.

Zeylin Callis was a pretty one, no doubt. Astarion watched him from behind, fingers idly tapping a loose rhythm on the hilt of his dagger as the elven warrior bent to survey the carcass. 

Firm stretches of finely sculpted muscle traversed the entire length of his body, his inky black hair falling over a tanned, flawless neck in a thick braid.

His only defect - if it was, in fact, a defect at all - hidden by a dark blue bandana that perpetually covered the left half of his face, from hairline to cheek bone.

“I do believe we have more pressing matters to attend than a few slain _beasts-_ “ Astarion began, the whine evident even to his own ears.

“Bloodless,” Zeylin said in his grim baritone, standing quickly and wiping his hands on his surprisingly clean breeches, his mouth in a tight, grim line. “Yet another creature utterly drained.” The man glanced in Astarion’s direction, before turning back to Wyll. “Vampires in the area. We should keep an extra watch tonight.”

Well. So much for his midnight snacks.

If he couldn’t scamper off to feed on wild boars while the rest of his unlikely compatriots ventured off into dream-land, it certainly wouldn’t take long for him to be well and truly fucked.

Did Callis suspect anything?

His eyes - eye, really - had lingered on Astarion for just a moment longer than was seemly. Pretty, pretty eye. He’d once had an amulet the same shade of emerald; how it had glittered against his skin before Cazador had snatched it from him, the bloody bastard-

The man stared still, inspecting him ratherlike he was a piece of meat in a butcher’s shop. Was there a stain on his doublet? A bit of ichor from that revolting ship? _Blood_?

No, he would’ve been able to smell that much, at least.

Perhaps the fellow was just looking for some company, a bit of merriment before they all turned into flopping, wriggling, tentacled monsters.

Or, least likely, Callis had seen through Astarion’s undoubtedly convincing act and had somehow, some way, noticed his fangs and ruby-red eyes.

But everyone who knew anything about vampires would have a question or two about Astarion’s current predicament. Admittedly, he had approximately twelve dozen himself.

Why did the parasite seem to negate some of the mire deleterious side effects of his… condition?

What was Callis hiding under that bandana? 

In those rather comfortable looking breeches?

Why did Shadowheart spend so much time fondling a rather odd box?

Why did Wyll keep muttering about a bloody woman?

Who put the massive stick up Gale’s arse?

No questions about Lae’zel, just in case she happened to be reading his thoughts and wanted to whack him in head with that massive pointy stick she wielded as recourse.

And of course, most importantly, would he be given enough time in the sunlight to drive a stake through his old master’s heart and shove him into his coffin before he transformed?

His reverie was broken by a distinctive snap from behind and Astarion turned on his heel to see a painted ochre forehead of a goblin peering over a nearby rise, aiming a bow at-

“Get _down_ ,” Astarion shouted at the two men still studying the boar corpse.

Zeylin moved first, shoving Wyll aside as an arrow came whistling towards the pair. The elf stood stock still as the arrowhead bounced harmlessly off his plate, the sound ringing through the fields. Astarion was already halfway towards the goblin nocking an arrow, when another half dozen came flying from the bushes. Shadowheart cursed under her breath and brandished her shield, standing over a prone Wyll to protect him from the onslaught. 

“Oy, look boys!” the first goblin cackled, peering from behind his leafy cover. “It’s the Blade of Frontiers, knocked back on his arse again!”

“Could take his other eye-” another croaked, then guttered as Astarion’s arrow sliced through the sinew of his neck, spraying blood from his jugular. 

A shiver ran down Astarion’s spine. The boar had hardly done enough to slake his thirst and the fresh spout of blood seemed so very appetizing-

But Callis and his compatriots were watching.

He licked the tips of his fangs and frowned, drawing his daggers to finish off the wretch.

Wyll set the bushes ablaze and their attackers scrambled, allowing Callis to mow down two with a single swing of his blade while Shadowheart speared a third. 

Blood everywhere. Goblin blood, sure, but to a starving man if may well have been from the neck of a king. What was the point of hiding? If the goblins didn’t get him, he was bound to be transformed by the wriggling worm in his head. A little sip. Surely his companions were all to preoccupied to notice? He bent to taste the blood of the corpse, his need nearly overcoming his sense-

A sharp, stinging pain settled in his shoulder as an arrow tore through his tunic and into the soft flesh below.

“Fuck!” Astarion wailed with a voice scarcely recognizable as his own. Black ichor dribbled from the wound, muddying with his blood to stain his fine silks. He felt his vision spin as he followed the arrow with one of his own, but it swung wide of the target, slamming into the bark of a nearby tree. Callis was on the fellow in moments, ending the bugger’s life with a clean slice. 

Wyll and Shadowheart managed to mop up the rest as Astarion stumbled, feeling it was about time for a mid-afternoon nap. “Poison,” he mumbled weakly, as Callis turned towards him at the sound of his boots scuffling against the dirt. He hoped on the Night’s Breath he didn’t look as weak as he felt. “All done here?”

Callis fixed him with a sharp stare and it was all Astarion could do to not wobble before the man. “Can you two see if this lot had anything on them that suggest why they attacked us or where they came from?” He tilted his head towards Astarion. “I think this one could use some attention.”

The sky had turned various shades of gray before Astarion felt strong arms under his, holding him up and giving him the dignity of at least _trying_ to move under his own control. Slowly, stumbling, but still conscious, at least. 

“Attention?” He grinned at the warrior under pale lashes. “Oh, I do so relish a bit of that from time to time.”

Callis grunted in response and the world shifted, sidereal and slanted, as he was hoisted up into the man’s arms, his eyelids feeling suddenly too heavy to remain aloft.


End file.
